Collision
by Scarabimi
Summary: When Sherlock is injured in an almost fatal car crash, and loses most of his memories (including meeting John and getting to know him), John is faced with the difficult task of bringing London's most famous detective back. Anyways, I suck at summaries, so just try it out, okay? :) Rated T for possible Romantic scenes, and language. Enjoy :)
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Sherlock, nor any of it's characters.**

_BACKGROUND INFO THAT YOU SHOULD KNOW:_ _The 'Car Crash' in this fanfiction happens as the Reichenbach Fall's replacement. Moriarty, instead of dying at the Reichenbach Fall, was 'killed' earlier, before the car crash happened._

* * *

**Author** **Note:**

I know I've been fairly inactive lately, this is mainly because I got caught up in school and anime/manga and such...

Anyways.

This is my newest fanfic, and I literally have no idea whatsoever on how long it will be. I'll write it like it's a OneShot, and if it's popular, I guess I'll continue it. :)

Hope you enjoy~! This one's looking like one of the more depressing stories I've written... sorry if it breaks any of your feels.

I'll give you fair warning now, I AM a JohnLock shipper, and so there will be at the very least hints at JohnXSherlock in this story (Gay ships are yay ships, right?)

Please please PLEASE leave reviews, I can always use the feedback, and it's really helpful to see how popular my stories are so I can choose which ones to update next/the quickest.

And as always...

Love chu all~ Keep Reading :)

~Scar

**Prologue:**

Blackness, terrible, swirling, never ending black. That was all he could see. That, and the light, the light that glimmered so hopelessly out of reach, so far above him. He contemplated the situation, what was happening? Who was he? Why was he here? Voices called to him, swirling and mixing into each other until they became a disgusting muddle of color. He tried to move, but was pulled down. Something stronger than gravity, his own weakness; and it was crippling, shockingly terrifying. This, and the realization that he was alone. Alone? Hadn't he always been? Who was there for him to feel lonely in the absence of? There had never been anybody. And yet, something still hurt within him; could this be emotion? He tried to open his weary eyes, staring up into the blazing light of what he could only imagine was the sun. It blinded him, he flinched away from it. That was when the voices started again. _Procedure... Low probability. Life... uncertain. _He could only pick out a few words, and each of these didn't seem to connect in any way other than one. They were in English. It was a start, a weak one, but seeing as he was trapped in his own weakness, a weak start seemed fitting. English, that meant that he was most likely in America, or England, although there were other countries that were possible, they seemed too unlikely to consider. America? No. The accents weren't fitting. _England, I'm in England. But who am I? I know I'm alone, and I know that I'm weak. But that's all I can remember... _The man, by now, had forced his eyes open, and was staring up at the barely visible ceiling. The ceiling was a white panel, interrupted with regularly occurring lines of black, that crisscrossed into a grid. _Tile. _Everything was swimming, his eyes rolled to the side, and he caught a glimpse of a uniform, light green, pressed neatly. _Medical. Judging by this and the light splashes of bleach where the wearer of the uniform no doubt had to bleach out the blood of his patients. The number of these discolored splotches, and their locations thereof highly indicates surgeon. _His eyelids, against his own will, were closing again, and he lost sight of his puzzle once more.

_What do I know? I'm in England, in a room with a tiled ceiling, with a... man judging by build, who is wearing a medical uniform which highly suggests surgeon. Conclusion, I am in the hospital, likely being operated on at this very moment. _This hypothesis was further backed by the incessant beep of a heart monitor, and the bite of a plastic oxygen mask against his face. He heard one of the voices from earlier, it seemed to drift to the top of his mind with an odd clarity.

"Sedate him, he's regaining consciousness!"

And then there was the delightful swirl of the drugs in his bloodstream.

And it was back to the blackness.

And the weakness.

And the terrifying loneliness.

* * *

Meanwhile, throughout this whole ordeal, a freshly dressed middle-aged man sat, just outside of the doors of the neurosurgical wing of Barnet General Hospital. Although his appearance was altogether rather ordinary, his face showed that he had been through his own set of trials. His eyes were hollow with grief, watery with tears that couldn't seem to fall; his lips were thin, pressed into a tight line, as though he was biting back the sobs. He rested back against the uncomfortable plastic seating in the waiting room, anxiously hoping that his particular patient, the one he had come to see, would make it through. His best friend in the entire world. The rest of the waiting room was filled with rather mundane people, a mother and father that were sobbing over the almost certain loss of their child, an older looking woman who kept a straight face, although she had just recently become a widow, without her even knowing it. The entire room seemed to stink with fear, the terrible fear of death that made even the most strong fall to their knees. The middle-aged man looked down, at the white and black tiled floor, with a blank look in his eyes. And gravity pulled, at the tears that couldn't seem to fall before.

And so the man, who was still looking down, watched as his tears fell; and didn't utter a single sound. Nothing.

The doors of the operating room swung open then, and the dead eyes of each of the four residents of the room turned expectantly towards them, hope glimmering in each pair, every pair except for the elderly woman. She stood, and walked across the horrible tiled floor with a slight limp in her left leg, without even being called up.

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Miss," The young surgeon murmured, his eyes tracing the lines of her face. The woman just nodded slowly, and turned, before leaving.

And the middle aged man, was left to his tears. And his own weakness.

And his own terrifying loneliness.


	2. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Sherlock, nor any of it's characters.**

_BACKGROUND INFO THAT YOU SHOULD KNOW:_ _The 'Car Crash' in this fanfiction happens as the Reichenbach Fall's replacement. Moriarty, instead of dying at the Reichenbach Fall, was 'killed' earlier, before the car crash happened._

* * *

**Author Note:**

So, I decided to continue... I have a feeling this little one shot experience is going to turn into a whole lot more.

Thank you guys for the positive feedback, it's really nice to know that you appreciate my writing :)

So anyways, I'll stop talking and continue...

And as always...

Love chu all~ Keep Reading :)

~Scar

**Chapter 1:**

The waiting room's occupancy rate occasionally changed, as it did now. The man who entered was rather tall (although, in retrospect, John Watson found a rather wide array of men to be tall, due to his infuriating shortness), dressed altogether too formally for a place such as this, and smelled rather strongly of expensive wines and cigars. "Such a time as this. Why couldn't brother have chosen a more convenient window in my schedule to be hit by a car, how rude of him," the man murmured, and although his words were bitter and horrible, his tone was condoling, soft even. The man settled himself into the chair directly opposite, watching our middle aged man, and knowing all too well how he was feeling. John looked up then, at the man who had just entered.

"Mycroft?" He then asked, in mild confusion. "Isn't our country in some sort of mortal peril or another? Don't you have meetings to attend to?"

"I canceled." The man said, as he procured a cigarette from the folds of his overcoat, and lit the end. John chuckled softly at that. "Is that really unbelievable to you?" Mycroft murmured as he exhaled a swirling cloud of smoke. John raised his eyebrows.

"You do know that's not allowed, don't you?" John's voice sounded rather weak, feeble. Mycroft didn't answer. Neither made any more attempts at conversation, the only sounds in the room were those of the couple from earlier, who were still clasping onto each other, practically drowning in a pool of their own tears. Mycroft glanced at them once or twice.

"How perfectly human," he said, quietly, like it was a secret that John wasn't meant to know about. _Human? _John looked at the couple then, while Mycroft looked at him. They were a rather ordinary couple, not worth taking the time to describe. Not worth anything at all in this large chess game Mycroft called life. Pawns. Ordinary goldfish. But to John, humans, that was what they were.

Throughout his life, John felt like he had known very few.

Humans.

* * *

The swirl of drugs greatly complicated the process of deduction for the curly haired man in the operation chair. Although heavily sedated, he wasn't asleep, which meant that he was awake enough to think, and that was a problem. The thoughts in his head swirled and pressed against his skull dangerously, as though trying to escape. He supposed it had something to do with the sharp metal instrument that was stuck into the back of his skull, either that or the drugs. And since he couldn't very well fight against the surgeons in his current state, he decided instead to interest himself with fighting the drugs. But fighting the drugs wasn't exactly a good idea, because each time he struggled, more would be pumped into him; to the point, where eventually he felt as though he was swimming. And then he was, swimming that is, through the crystal clear, shimmering water of the lake. The lake that resided just in front of his mind palace. It was rather ordinary for a palace, in fact, portions of it could be considered mundane. But to Sherlock, it didn't matter what the place looked like, as long as it served its purpose. A vault, a hundred vaults, all locked up in the impenetrable shackles of his own consciousness. He broke the surface, gasping for unnecessary breath, and heaving himself out of the water. Droplets showered off of him, at such a rate that soon he was quite dry, as he walked towards the large front door; or rather, where the front door should have been. There were no doors in Sherlock's mind palace, for it was his own. There was no need, no chance of any intrusion. The soles of his shoes echoed eerily in the dull space, and then he was at a crossroads.

_Left: Observational Gallerias, Knowledge Library. Right: Personal Wing, Memory Collections. _The thick lettering read, glaring down at him from a large, rather ostentatious plaque. Although the Left seemed rather useful at this point in time, the Right path caught his eye, and he turned in that direction, starting off down the hall. The rooms here seemed old, dusty, hardly used. Sherlock noted that there were dates, printed in large block letters like the ones in the front lobby. "August 25, 1994", "June 15, 1995" none of them seemed particularly interesting; fragments, like snippets of a documentary that had been going on for too long, assaulted him from behind gaping doorways. The rooms were arranged, in chronological order it seemed, Sherlock passed the 1900's and soon made his way to the 21st century, where he encountered something altogether impossible...

_A door?_

Sherlock felt the knob with his fingertips, and felt a sharp jolt of pain in the base of his skull, a throbbing. He sensed then, that this was off limits. Something had happened... the door swung open with this thought, allowing Sherlock to take in the vast expanse of grass and light beyond. Something had gone wrong... his memories were lost, on the wrong part of his map...

But where do you begin to look for something, in an infinite expanse of nothing?

* * *

The door that led to the operating and staff rooms opened then, and all eyes turned upon it. A young woman emerged, smiling softly. "John Watson?" She asked, scanning the faces of all the persons who occupied the room. He stood, walking lightly over to her.

"Yes, that's me," Mycroft had stood as well, and now resided uncomfortably close, behind him, like a shadow that didn't quite fit. The woman glanced at Mycroft's cigarette disapprovingly, before turning her attention back to Watson.

"He's stable," she smiled again. "You'll be able to go see him in a couple of hours, once he gets out of recovery; but for now, Lauren will take care of the financial papers and such with you at the desk." But John barely heard any of it. Happiness, great surging happiness that filled him up with warmth; it was like nothing he had ever experienced before, foreign, exciting, beautiful.

"Oh God." He murmured, a goofy grin on his face. Mycroft slapped a hand on his back, in what could only be seen as an affectionate gesture.

"He's too stubborn to kick the bucket just yet," he exhaled, along with another large curl of smoke. "Now, go get the paperwork sorted out, will you? You have quite the audience outside." John thought on that for a minute, remembering that only immediate family and close friends were allowed inside the waiting room. There must be a large party waiting for word on Sherlock's condition, Molly, Lestrade and his crew, Mrs. Hudson, all surrounded in a never ending pool of news reporters, wielding cameras and microphones, Irene might've even shown up. He smiled again, and turned in the direction of the over sized desk, behind which a solitary woman sat, clacking rather loudly on her keyboard. Behind him, John heard the other woman who hadn't introduced herself talk in a low voice with Mycroft.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask that you dispose of that cigarette, we're sorry for the inconvenience, but this is a smoke-free facility." John glanced back as Mycroft sighed, taking it from his mouth and exhaling his last cloud of smoke, and then Lauren was talking.

"Sir?"

"Oh yes? Sorry I didn't quite catch that..." She laughed slightly.

"Who're you filling out paperwork for?" She asked again.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes..." She murmured, searching for his file. "Ah, here it is. He came to us a few hours ago with reported brain trauma after a rather nasty car crash?"

"Yes." John murmured, behind him, a cacophony of sounds suddenly exploded. He turned slightly, seeing the couple interlocked in a joyous embrace. The woman from earlier was smiling broadly._  
_

_Humans._

John smiled a bit at that, as he got to work on his paperwork.


	3. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Sherlock, nor any of it's characters.**

**The 'Car Crash' in this fanfiction happens as the Reichenbach Fall's replacement. Moriarty, instead of dying at the Reichenbach Fall, was 'killed' earlier, before the car crash happened.**

* * *

**Author Note:**

Sorry for so much delay guys! I haven't written anything in quite a long while, even RP wise! This is one habit I really hope to get back into :3

Anyways, I chose to update this story first because I feel that it has the most potential of the ones I am currently writing, if you have requests for any other updates, feel free to PM me or write a review on that story.

Thanks again,

Love chu all~ Keep Reading :)

~Scar

**Chapter 2:**

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, the world had returned to its usual state. A comfortable kind of boring. He felt frail, as though all of his strength had been drawn out of his body in the operating room. A long, sad sigh escaped from his lips, and as he had no other source of entertainment, he began to deduce. But before he had the chance to learn anything more about his situation, a door had opened. It was a rather awful, creaky, old door. The kind that seemed to set you on edge for no real purpose at all, but nonetheless, it had opened. And now, emerging from it, was a short young man with an overly excited demeanor.

"Sherlock! You're awake! My god, you sure do like your beauty rest," the man was grinning ear to ear. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion, and just as he began to sift through his memories to find the newcomer's face, another joined the crowd.

"Brother dear," said Mycroft, looking a bit cross, "You worried me, well, in retrospect I'm just one of the masses. You've got half of England waiting outside to see to your safe return. Made quite a story, you being hit."

"Hit?" Sherlock's voice caught on the way out, tangling somewhere in his vocal chords and making the word sound awfully wrong.

"Indeed, with a car," Mycroft raised his eyebrows, "Can't say I'd never thought about doing it, myself."

"Mycroft!" The stranger snapped, "Now is **not** the time to be joking about that."

"Speaking of, who's this?" Sherlock's gaze swept from the man's slightly angry face to Mycroft's, "Isn't this area for family only? He a friend of yours Mycroft? But no... you don't have friends."

"Sherlock..." The stranger's face had become tight with worry, fear dancing in his eyes, he laughed nervously, "Now really isn't the time for fun and games, okay?"

_Sherlock. _The man had said his name twice now, indicating that they were 'familiar' in one way or another. "Fun and games?" Sherlock pressed his fingertips together, studying the man closely.

"A-are you-"

"John, I think it'd be better if you left, now," Mycroft murmured, worry lining his own face as well. _John? _It was just about then that a short, slightly overweight nurse pushed her way into the room.

"John! Oh, terribly sorry to be a bother, I just need you to initial once more. Silly really, forgetting to- what? What is it?" All three pairs of eyes had shifted to the woman in the doorway. It was then that the stranger- John, he had been called- stood; his demeanor was suddenly hostile, as he stared at Sherlock.

"God Sherlock, I swear, if you're taking the mickey..." Sherlock met his gaze with a vacant stare. The man laughed, "Getting better at acting aren't we?!" Every word of the phrase sounded desperate, in denial, hopeful.

"I am afraid I am not aware of our relationship... John," Sherlock said, very clearly, his voice returning to it's crisp, accentuated English tone.

"O-oh, oh god, I am so sorry John," The nurse murmured, her hands clasped together painfully. "But, he could be completely serious-"

"Or a complete _git,_" He practically spat the last word. "It isn't funny Sherlock. It ISN'T."

"John, please..."

"No, Lauren, stay out of this." Mycroft was completely silent, watching the scene unfold before him as though it were some kind of play. Lauren, whom Sherlock identified to be the stout nurse, rested a hand on John's arm.

"I can not allow you to stay, I'm sorry, but it's not good for patients to go through this much mental stress so soon after an operation," her voice was soothing, soft. "Please, follow me to the waiting room, and we can talk about it."

"Do you want me to leave as well?" Mycroft looked down at the two individuals.

"No, no, I think it'd be better for you to stay, see if you can do something to jog his memory," John had fallen silent, his face completely and utterly crestfallen. "Mr. Watson?" The pair shuffled out, John leaning slightly against her.

"That was a cruel thing to do, you know," Mycroft murmured, his eyes following them to the door, before fixing on Sherlock.

"What on Earth did _I _do?"

"You forgot," He sat himself next to the bed, drawing another cigarette from his pack, "Brother dear, you forgot all about John Watson." He sighed a swirl of smoke.

"Forgot?"

_About... John Watson?_

* * *

"Bloody Hell..." murmured Lestrade, as a very pale, very shaky John Watson was seen exiting the waiting room through the glass windows of the neurosurgical wing of Barnet General Hospital. "I wonder what's going on in there." He leaned back on his heels, raising his eyebrows. "Sherlock couldn't have keeled over while he was in recovery, I wonder..."

"Oh, do you really think that's a possibility?" Asked Molly, frightfully, her fingers were clasped together tightly, and the last of her tears were still visible, wet against her pale face.

"Don't scare the poor girl," scolded Mrs. Hudson, as she looked at Molly with high levels of sympathy. "I'm sure it was just the shock of seeing Sherlock back again, that's all."

A loud, obnoxious snort of indifference was heard plainly. "Shock? Did you see his face?" Anderson was in an altogether bad mood today. Mrs. Hudson cast him a venomous look, and he fell silent.

Sally, who had been quiet up to this point, looking down at the floor with a grim expression on her face, spoke then, "What are we all doing here in the first place? This freak doesn't deserve our attention." She laughed slightly, no one else did.

The atmosphere was thick, tense; almost palpably full an oppressing sort of darkness... The kind of aura that makes you feel like you're choking on your own emotion. The grounds just outside the hospital were full of cameras, reporters dressed freshly speaking into their microphones, the monotonous beep of each camera as it started recording. And at the very edge of this crowd, was where he stood. The solitary figure that embraced the darkness with a sense of ease, smiling a crooked smile. And this man, who watched from the sidelines with such a casual air, went unnoticed. That was how he had always liked it, secretly; unnoticed was a good place to be, a place where you could get away with so much more.

Getting away with things was the man's specialty, you see. Chess. Life was chess to him, one wrong move and he was in jail. But he was a master, he played his pawns with precision, the black and white tiles were nothing compared to his skill. Yes, life was a game of chess.

And he was on his way to winning this particular game.

His crooked smile never faltered, remaining plastered on his face like some kind of gruesome he mouthed the words.

_"Did you miss me?"_


	4. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Sherlock, nor any of its characters.**

_BACKGROUND INFO THAT YOU SHOULD KNOW:_ _The 'Car Crash' in this fanfiction happens as the Reichenbach Fall's replacement. Moriarty, instead of dying at the Reichenbach Fall, was 'killed' earlier, before the car crash happened._

* * *

**Author Note:**

Hey guys! I've decided to become a bit more consistent with the rate at which I produce chapters; I should be able to do at **least **one a week, hopefully more. I feel like this story is going places, and hopefully, I can get it done on a good schedule. ((Extra sorry for the late upload on this chapter, hopefully it won't deter you from my writing :) ))

Comments are always welcome! I appreciate feedback and love hearing it :)

It makes me feel less alone in this whole business…

Love chu all~ Keep Reading :)

~Scar

* * *

**Chapter 3:**

John felt as though something inside of him had broken. Nothing felt real, it had just been a few hours ago, when he had been sitting in that waiting room crying his eyes out over the almost certain loss of his friend. But now, was he even considered one? A friend, that is? John should've known, he should've understood, being a doctor and all; plus, there was still a chance that Sherlock would come back to him, that he would remember. But the human part of John was denying all the facts. _He doesn't remember. He doesn't remember... _It hurt, oh it hurt. He was broken, entirely and painfully broken.

"Now listen, John, I'm sorry. I really am, but don't you think you're being a bit irrational?" Lauren murmured the words softly, so as to refrain from drawing any attention to themselves.

"That's bullshit and we both know it. He's my friend, my **best **friend. And I'm his **only **friend-was-was his only friend," John looked down, and sighed. "I understand that there's still a chance for both of us, but that's all it is in the end, a chance."

Lauren opened her mouth as if to say something but closed it again rather quickly, her eyes full of compassion and sympathy. "I'm so sorry John."

And these words succeeded in doing nothing but making him hurt even more. The pain in his chest was stronger now, physical pain; he leaned against the wall for support. The tears had begun to fall at this point; there was nothing he could really do to prevent them. Nothing, what a fitting word for this situation; utterly helpless, utterly useless, tired of waiting, tired of holding back tears. He felt nothing and yet everything, at the same time. Crushing guilt, had he done all he could to prevent the accident? Sudden, shocking loneliness, was he all alone again? Hunger, drowsiness, thirst, when had he last eaten? It all seemed like a dream, like any moment now he would wake up at home without a single memory to back up this whole grand fairytale.

This nightmarish… twisted pain.

* * *

The man turned on his heel, walking away from the place. He yawned, before rolling his eyes. "Hospitals are honestly such _dull _places; I did think you'd choose a more interesting place for our meeting, Irene."

The woman just stared, her eyes blank, as devoid of emotion as his. "Oh?" She murmured after a while, adjusting the straps of her black, plain dress. "I think it's rather fitting." But no, her eyes weren't blank, there was a hint of icy anger hidden there, piercing through him with every blink. "Don't you?"

Her lipstick was bright red, the color of still wet blood, just as it rose to the surface of the body.

"In a sense, I understand you're trying to add drama and suspense. But let me tell you something important dearest, unfortunately, I'm untouchable. By drama, suspense, the law, even your precious Sherlock." He put his hands in his pocket. "And so, I am a bit confused as to why you've brought me here."

"Because," she took a step closer to him, her tall black heels clicking eerily on the empty sidewalk, "Although I know," another step, "That Sherlock isn't particularly," another, "Capable. You shouldn't underestimate those few that consider themselves his friends."

"And you consider yourself his friend, do you?"

"No, in fact, I do not." The man raised his eyebrows. "Men are below me, all men, which includes you."

"Me? Don't get ahead of yourself."

"I don't have to," she was close at this point, extremely close, "Because you'll always be two steps behind me." She smirked. "But I called you here for a reason, you see, and I think you'll find it worth your time to hear."

"Will I?" He watched her with the indifference of which a king regards a peasant.

"I came to declare war, me versus you," Irene's voice was strong, full of confidence.

"War?"

"Although I do not consider him to be a friend, Sherlock Holmes is a very special man, a man who deserves very special protection."

The man laughed, "Protection? From little old me? Don't you understand, Irene? This is a game of chess. I'm the black, the darkness, the fear. Sherlock is white, pure," he paused for a bit, "And you're nothing. A mere pawn will not affect the game, and this game has been played for a long time, longer than you'd know."

"Not a pawn, perhaps," said Irene, with a fire in her eyes, "but a Queen?" And with that, she turned, and began to walk away.

The man smiled, before laughing out loud, clapping loudly. "Bravo, bravo." But once she was out of hearing and seeing range, the smile fell, and anger clouded the man's eyes.

**_"Bravo."_**

* * *

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, with no particular question in mind, but dozens attacking each other, fighting for dominance. Eventually he settled upon one. "Who is John Watson?"

Mycroft just sat back in his chair, studying the younger man with tired eyes. "I can't tell you about him, I'm afraid. We want you to find that out for yourself."

Sherlock closed his eyes, pressing his fingertips to either side of his forehead, and massaging his temples. "And who are 'we'?"

"All of us, even you, deep down," Mycroft sat back, smoke escaping from his lips and curling upwards, before disappearing into nothingness. "Cigarette?" Mycroft asked, pulling his pack of cigarettes from his overcoat and looking at Sherlock.

"Yes, please," ever since he'd woken up he'd been craving that sting of bitter nicotine that burned so beautifully. The sigh of pleasure that escaped his lips with the first curl of smoke was the only thing that filled the dark silence for a measurable amount of minutes. The silence was pressing, choking, but neither of the brothers seemed to notice, they were used to sitting alone, with just themselves and their thoughts.

But if silence isn't made to be broken, what purpose does it serve?

"John Watson?"

"John Watson."

"What makes him so different from the rest of the pawns? So different from the rest of the goldfish that swim mindlessly and couldn't even understand us if they wanted to?" Sherlock asked.

"Honestly, I never understood myself, why does a human enjoy the companionship of a dog?"

"So you're calling him a pet?"

"In a sense, I suppose he is."

And thus silence fell again, and this time, the two thought they would let it settle and get comfortable, seeing as it would stick around for a rather long while.

_John Watson?_

_John Watson._

_Who is John Watson?_


End file.
